


Confession and Absolution

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Dean didn't think the Church's confessional booth could be used quite like this...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confession and Absolution

**Warnings:** Explicit sex, blasphemy, some violence and, if you squint hard enough, non-con.  
 **Word count:** 2,520  


The confessional booth. Sacred, anonymous and a place in which the penitent voiced their sins and sought absolution. Father Dean had made a point to make it as comfortable as possible. Both compartments were roomy and lacked the suffocating confinements of the traditional confessionals—sin was constricting enough. Dim, soothing lights welcomed the penitent and invited them to confess their darkest secrets. Selfishness drove the need for such luxury, however. As the members of his flock droned on about their venial sins, Father Dean wanted to be at physical ease, able to relax on his plush bench while the desperate nearly put him to sleep. He was simply too entrenched in the pleasurable conveniences of the world.

Selfishness wasn’t particularly an admirable quality for a priest. But Father Dean had never been considered a good one. Too many vices kept him from discovering the true meaning of God, prevented him from having the proper relationship priests had with their Creator. Alcohol, sex, food. With such things keeping him grounded, it wasn’t a surprise that he was often labeled the black sheep of the priesthood. The spotted lamb that wasn’t perfect enough, not worthy enough for God’s sacrifice. Sometimes, he didn’t mind that he had one foot securely planted in Hell.

And surely, he hadn’t planned to use confessional booth like this…

Father Dean crashed into the priest’s compartment, lips locked together with that of a blue-eyed stranger who he had seen only once or twice before during services. From the mouths of gossiping old women, Father Dean had learned that his name was Castiel, a wayward traveler passing through who had no intention of staying. It didn’t matter how the pair of them ended up here, in the confessional, hot bodies pressed so close together that they nearly embodied the same space. All that mattered was that they were and that Father Dean had bought a fast-track ticket straight to Hell. But right now, at this second, he didn’t care. God be damned.

Father Dean fell back into a seated position on the bench, arms wide on either side of the confessional, breaking what could have been painful fall. It was immediate how Castiel mounted him, settling into his lap and facing toward his priest, knees dug into the bench with no chance of moving. Nothing about this was comfortable and it was so fast and so hard that Father Dean didn’t care, didn’t mind that his body and head slammed against the wall. And it hurt, but the pain instantly fell away and was replaced with an incredible need as lips met again, hot and filthy. Father Dean groaned into the stranger’s mouth, fought back with his tongue as hands grazed over his captor’s body, curves running like butter-milk under the priest’s rough fingertips. Castiel responded to his touching by grinding into his lap relentlessly, whimpering sweet little noises into Father Dean’s mouth as if this was the only thing that kept him sane. Shamelessly, Father Dean shifted his hands to knead at slender hips, pushing them down harder into his own to increase the friction. Their bodies responded, cocks hard and rubbing together through clothing to create heat that would rival Hell’s inferno. There was another muted noise of pleasure against Father Dean’s lips, so falsely chaste that it sparked a darker urge in him; he who should have been so holy. He wanted to break this delicate creature, rip him apart and leave him begging to be fucked over and over again. Far too distracted, he couldn’t keep the line of thought rolling.

The blue-eyed angel cupped both sides of Father Dean’s face, intensifying the kiss and dance of tongues so forcefully and so deeply that it incited yet another damning groan from the priest’s throat. They only parted momentarily to breath, mouths crashing together again as if the second they were apart had been far too long, and far too agonizing. Father Dean hungered for something else other than the wet sucking of lips and used quick hands to tear at Castiel’s blue tie like he were some kind of wild animal. The white dress shirt fell prey next, ripped open in a spray of buttons that clattered in the small space to reveal pale flesh beneath. Castiel whispered a groan as Father Dean’s mouth found his throat, quick pulse racing under the priest’s lips and luring him into a sinful lull against the heat of this temptation. It was then that the priest felt Castiel’s neck constrict under his mouth, full with words needing to be spilled. Father Dean didn’t want to hear anything other than vocal pleasure and sucked on the flesh as if to choke out the intention of speaking.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned—”

Fuck.

“—many nights have I thought about you… touching me…” He groaned loudly, erratic intake of air sharp. “… fucking me—“

The way that Castiel was entirely breathless, the low rumble of his voice dark and deep, sent a shiver along the priest’s spine. And that didn’t even consider the blasphemy. The act of confessing in such a holy place while tumbling balls-deep into fornication… it was indescribable how freeing that felt—and how fucking wrong it was.

Father Dean groaned into his skin and bit his throat, letting his hand palm at the side of Castiel’s neck. Greedy fingers pulled the blue-eyed stranger closer and teeth grazed along skin, causing the blast of a hiss-groan to fall from Castiel’s abused throat. In response, that little devil swung his hips forward, no mercy given to the way he pressed his body against Father Dean, writhing like a whore and setting the priest’s lap on fire. Father Dean should have stopped this a long time ago, but didn’t, and still didn’t even as Castiel slinked off him and began to undress what he could. Suddenly, Father Dean’s bare flesh hit the air, cock flush and ready, and leaping to the occasion. Castiel didn’t hesitate in situating himself back on the priest’s lap, spitting into his hand first before taking the hard flesh into his fingers. It was a gasp that ripped past the priest’s lips when Castiel began to apply even and rhythmic strokes down the length of it, the heat and pressure perfect. Father Dean jerked his hips upward as much as he could into the wet fist, slamming his head against the booth’s wall in response to how… fucking incredible it felt. The priest let loose another groan, chin tilted up and mouth open, panting against the stale air they shared.

All of it was a miasmic blur, soul-crushing and sinfully delectable at the same time. So much so that Father Dean nearly missed the transition from hand-fucking to his cock sliding into Castiel with more ease than was thought possible. His little angel was so tight, enveloping all of him deep inside and clenching, sending shock waves of ecstasy up and through. Suddenly, they were slotted together like they were carved from the same stone, like this gift of a man was created just for his priest. And the way their bodies moved together… fluidly, slowly—a greedy yet equal give and take of each other. Castiel whimpered against the priest’s ear while they perfected their rhythm, hips grinding, moans reaching a pitch that broke past whispers. Father Dean mouthed his collarbone, hot breaths spent over pale flesh, staining it wet with carnal desire. Reflexes had been slowed with sex-lust, almost enough that Father Dean didn’t notice the sudden movement in the penitent’s compartment of the confessional booth. And it was entirely too late to cover his angel’s mouth to keep him from groaning.

“Bless me, Father—“ The voice was aged, cracking at each syllable. Was the old woman deaf?

Father Dean slammed his hand against the grid and hissed, “Get the fuck out.”

The gasp and hurried exit left them to their sinful fornication.

Castiel tilted his chin upward and laughed breathlessly. It was born from a dark place and mocked God, the sanctity of the confessional, the very root of everything considered holy. His cheshire-cat smile was too smug, slippery and dangerous like the Devil’s Serpent. Tempting and blasphemous—wrong in all the right ways. It was then that Father Dean doubted the purity of his angel, saw through the translucent skin to the black heart beneath. No. He was simply misguided and needed to be saved from his deviant lifestyle—this stranger needed the message of God. Father Dean never intended to deliver it through his cock.

As if the thrill of being caught had been fuel to the fire, Castiel rocked into his priest harder, breaths cut short by throat-deep groans. Quickly, their bodies moved against each other at a more frantic pace and his blue-eyed angel decided that his moaning wasn’t loud enough, that he should nearly cry out with every thrust. The priest didn’t care. The damage had been done.

Father Dean’s hands mapped the bare, smooth skin of his chest, fingers memorizing every detail as they caressed and worshipped the fine lines of hard muscle. Castiel writhed under the touch and hung his head back to let out another cry, the seduction of it very real and bordering on the height of arousal.

“Father…” Another groan shook the steadiness of his voice. “… absolve me of my sins.” Castiel descended down on the priest’s length particularly hard, causing Father Dean to gasp out in pure bliss. “Please!”

It was all wrong. There was no act of contrition, no penance assigned. But this wasn’t a normal confession, was it? Father Dean could barely find the words to the prayer of absolution, discovered that they fought for supremacy amid the groans of his own sins.

“.. Dominus noster—”

Castiel arched his back and called out in ecstasy.

“—Jesus Christus te absolvat—“

Father Dean lost his voice as his little angel squirmed against him and ratcheted up the rhythm, pivoting hips moving in sync so desperately that it almost hurt. The reaction he received from reciting the prayer was too deliciously sacrilegious to ignore and encouraged broken groans by whispering more of it into wet skin.

“—et ego auctoritate ipsius te—“

Castiel snapped his head back as if pulled by invisible strings and his moan bordered on an excitable scream. It sparked passion beyond anything the priest had experienced, throwing them into a tug and pull that was rough, and deep, and everything that Father Dean needed. It was immoral how much Father Dean wanted this, how effortless it was enjoy the obscene way they moved together, so wet and warm. His hands slid over every inch of soft flesh frantically, as if it would disappear in any second, following the curve of the back to hips that begged to be touched. Father Dean grabbed a hold of them, nothing about his touch gentle, and roughly pulled the blue-eyed stranger down on top of him over and over again. Castiel called out with a moan dark and rich, and pulled hard at his priest’s hair, leaning into him enough to nip at his ear. His angel sought leverage at the back wall of the confessional, hands splayed on either side of Father Dean’s head, using the new advantage to press deeper with every bodily descent. They continued to crash together frenetically, bodies graced with a sheet of sweat where skin met bare skin, desperate and needy hands pulling and grabbing at each other. And with every plunge and jerk, the momentum sent Father Dean thumping against the back wall, jarring loose moan after moan. Suddenly, Castiel wasn’t the only one calling out every single time.

He could feel it at the edge of his conscious, this tidal wave of pleasure that frayed his nerves distinctly, powerfully, near arising to consume all of him. Father Dean dug his heels in and wrapped an arm around the waist of his angel to aid in the downward thrust, panting hard and whimpering against naked skin. In the dim light, the priest could see the red flush of Castiel’s cock, wanted so badly to touch it, yearned for it and did, grabbing it with no shame. Castiel’s body quivered violently, reacted beautifully to the touching with a shudder of ecstasy that rippled along every muscle. And his outcry was a reflectance of his appreciation and it was raw and dirty, clawing at the priest’s core. It only took two strokes before Castiel spilled over into his hand with a scream that was nearly earth-shattering. His release was hot and plentiful over his fingers, but Father Dean didn’t care, nuzzled the angel’s throat and traveled kisses up to his jaw line. He could feel his own orgasm just out of reach—so close, just there. The fallen priest pressed their lips together harshly, opened his eyes fleetingly in the expectation to catch brilliant blue. Except they weren’t any longer. Stunning blue had been replaced with all-black, as pitch as Hell itself. Certainly it must have been the play of the light.

Father Dean immediately succumbed to his body’s culmination, his release announced with a sharp, long and drawn-out groan that thundered up and down the length of his muscles. It left them weak and trembling and the sensation spread over his entirety, as glorious as the Second Coming of Christ. Father Dean would have liked to bask in the warmth of the afterglow, wanting nothing more than to sink into the hot arms of this stranger and escape forever. But he didn’t have that luxury.

Father Dean doubted that Castiel expected his priest to be so quick or knowledgeable, and the surprise was evident on his face. The priest snapped his hand forward to grip the once-presumed angel’s throat, tightening fingers vice-like and vicious. The blue-eyed stranger tried to breathe, but choked instead, struggled wildly against the assault that soon burned and sizzled his flesh. The holy water-and-salt mixture against Castiel’s skin created a thin haze of smoke as if something had been cooked for too long. Open-mouthed screams were filled with the stuff, gargled and sputtered down along with the agonizing pain.

“You fucked the wrong priest, demon.”

The demon hissed as it was nearly tortured, burning and struggling, screaming its defiance. But it was no use. Father Dean had no compassion for the spawns of Hell. Growling, it thrashed—

“Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino qui fertis ascendit super caelum caeli ad Orientem. Ecce dabit voci suae vocem virtutis, tribuite virtutem deo.”

—and by the end of the rite of exorcism, it was gone in a cloud of black smoke. Limply, the demon’s vessel fell against the priest, still warm and alive, expelling haggard breaths. Castiel (if that was even his name) didn’t open those perfect blue eyes, didn’t respond at all to outer stimulation. The priest had fucked someone who wasn’t even in control of his own body. More than he thought, his sin of lust was grave.

Father Dean held Castiel close as all of the world’s guilt crashed in on him.


End file.
